


A Sky Full of Fire Wheels

by elviswhataguy



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviswhataguy/pseuds/elviswhataguy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Kara Danvers kissed someone, including one time when it maybe wasn’t <i>too</i> weird.</p><p>One pairing per chapter.</p><p>Note 1: ‘Someone’ does not include any dudes.</p><p>Note 2:  All five chapters are already written.  Characters and pairings will be added to the tags as new chapters are posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boning William Shatner

**Author's Note:**

> Mild-ish Kalex. Don’t want to go to hell; figured I could bury it in this Kara/multiple-pairings fic -- by putting it RIGHT AT THE FRONT. Oh well.
> 
> Also, chapter one contains a brief reference to domestic violence within a particular context. Please note, this chapter was written prior to recent horrible real-life revelations and the timing is purely coincidental; but, the inclusion of this detail does serve a (minor) purpose within the narrative as a whole.

**One: Boning William Shatner**

They’re curled up on the couch, only inches apart, still PJ-clad and barefoot at one o’clock in the afternoon.  Eliza’s gone for the day, teaching summer courses at the university, and an old episode of _Star Trek_ keeps them amused while they pretend not to be wasting the time they have left together before Alex leaves for Stanford. 

Kara tries not to think too much about Alex leaving. 

Rolling her eyes at the unfolding side-plot, Alex tugs the chest of her pajama shirt into two points.  “ _Oh, yes, teach me your Earth ways, Captain,”_ she mimics in a high-pitched voice and Kara giggles.  “ _I am but a simple alien female with huge alien boobs who does not understand … what is it called?  Love_?” 

Kara’s giggle escalates into a loud snorty sort of laugh and Alex rolls her eyes again, letting go of her shirt. 

“Really?  All those hot alien chicks want to bone _William Shatner_?  I don’t think so.” 

Kara peers through her glasses at the TV, half-nods, half-shakes her head in agreement.  “Nope, would not bone,” she confirms and, this time, it’s Alex’s turn to chuckle. 

“Okay, first, you just called yourself ‘hot’.”  Alex pokes Kara in the ribs and Kara squirms.  “And, second, what do _you_ know about boning?” 

Kara glares back.  “More about _alien_ boning than you do.” 

“Oh, really?” 

“Yeah, really … probably.  ‘Cause, you know … alien.” 

Alex’s amused expression tightens into a slight grimace.  “You haven’t _done_ any boning yet, have you?” she asks in a low voice. 

Kara makes Alex wait, watches her eyes get darker and mouth start to crease further with unease.  Then she laughs, shoves Alex -- careful, always careful -- and picks up her juice box from the coaster on the coffee table.  “No, jeez …”     

Alex exhales what sounds conspicuously like a short sigh of relief.  “’Cause if you’ve got any questions …” 

“That’s what you said back when Eliza and Jeremiah gave me The Talk.”

Alex chuckles.  “And you said, _No, but Eliza had a shit-ton of questions about Kryptonian reproduction_.” 

Kara’s pretty sure those weren’t her _exact_ words, but she lets the make-believe profanity slide and instead directs an obnoxiously smug grin at her sister.  “Which brings us back to me knowing more about alien boning than you do.” 

“Touché,” says Alex.  She turns back to watch the TV again for a minute, before smirking and prodding Kara’s thigh with her index finger.  “Weird then that you turned out to be such a prude.” 

Kara scowls.  “No, I’m not.” 

“Are too.” 

“Not.” 

“Okay, fine.”  Alex nods toward the TV again.  “Pick three.” 

“What?” 

“If you had to make out with three of them, who would you pick?” 

Kara stares at the TV screen.  “Three?” 

“Did I stutter?” 

Kara’s brow furrows.  “How’s this going to prove that I’m … not what you said I am?  And, anyway, it’s not like I’ve never kissed anyone before.  Okay, maybe that last time wasn’t so great, but you try kissing a guy who says your ‘man-shoulders’ are a big turn o--” 

“Kara,” Alex groans.  “I told you, they’re not ‘man-shoulders’, they’re _your_ shoulders and that guy was a freak.  Now, just pick three of them, will you?” 

Kara nods, then glances at the TV, then squints at Alex.  “Am I still an alien in this scenario?”

Alex sighs.  “I don’t know, it doesn’t--yeah, sure, whatever, you’re an alien.” 

Chewing her lip, Kara once again focuses on the TV, where the crew’s now back on the Enterprise, listening to Kirk’s oddly-rendered orders.  Kara’s not sure she’s ever heard another human being talk with those kinds of pauses and inflections before. 

“Am I allowed to make out with other aliens?” she checks and Alex sighs again. 

“Yeah, Kara, aliens are allowed.” 

“Then Spock, I guess, ‘cause … Leonard Nimoy?”  She glances at Alex who nods her head in approval. 

“And …?” 

“And Sulu,” says Kara, more confident now.  “He’s cute.” 

Another nod. 

“And … um … Uhura.” 

Alex’s eyebrow rises just a fraction. 

“She’s smart and pretty and she looks like she’d be a good kisser,” Kara says with a shrug and takes a sip from her juice box.  Under Alex’s mildly curious -- possibly slightly amused -- gaze, she can feel her face start to warm a little and she doesn’t know why. 

Alex nudges Kara’s thigh with her big toe.  “You know people didn’t do gay stuff back then, right?” 

The straw pops out of Kara’s mouth.  “Really?” 

“I don’t mean _literally_ , dummy.  I mean, they wouldn’t even have acknowledged it as a _thing_ on TV.”

“Oh,” says Kara, and takes another long sip until she hears the juice run out with a slurpy, rattling sort of noise and she’s sucking air.

She remembers almost a year ago, one of her teachers getting married during the summer; then, shortly after the new semester started, a classmate announcing to everyone within earshot after school one day that she liked their teacher okay, but, let’s face it, it could never be a _real_ marriage.  Mindful of repeated instructions about not drawing attention to herself -- even just to correct barefaced ignorance when she heard it -- Kara had merely looked at Alex and rolled her eyes; but Alex was already turning to face the girl, doing that thing with her shoulders and with the way she stood that, despite her actual stature, somehow made her look bigger than everyone else, and said loudly: _Yeah, I guess it’s not as legit as giving your own cousin handjobs under the bleachers during prom, Belinda_.  Everyone had laughed and/or made _ew_ -ing noises and Kara’s horrified classmate never said anything about real or not real marriages again. 

Kara tosses the empty juice box into the waste paper basket across the room and ignores Alex’s muttered, “Show off.” 

“So, who would you …?”  Kara nods at the TV. 

“Make out with?”  Alex shrugs.  “Your picks were pretty cool,” she says.  The corner of her mouth curves up in a sly grin.  “You know, for a repressed alien.” 

Within seconds, Kara’s glasses are deposited on top of the coffee table and she’s picking up a throw pillow and whacking Alex -- careful, always -- across the chest, letting the pillow drop onto her sister’s lap.  Clambering on top, despite the other girl’s laughing groans of protest, she props her forearm against the arm of the couch beside Alex’s head so’s not to put all her weight on her.  The fingers of her other hand dig lightly into her sister’s side, ready for tickling to commence. 

“So, show me your Earth ways, Alex Danvers,” Kara says, while Alex presses her hands against her shoulders, trying to shove her away.  Kara means the words to sound robotic and high, but, instead they come out low and oddly breathy. 

“Jesus, Kara, quit it,” Alex says, still laughing, still shoving.  “You really need to grow up …” 

Kara doesn’t know why this moment is different -- they roughhouse all the time -- but, all of a sudden, everything starts to build up in a rush, a devastating mix of the ordinary and extraordinary:  she can hear her sister’s heartbeat, smell the shampoo in her hair from last night’s shower and the fabric softener from her PJs, swears she can see her own reflection in the thin sheen of sweat below Alex’s hairline.  The sound from the television fills her ears, louder and louder, until it starts to sound like white noise -- and Alex is looking up at her, eyes creased, her laughter turning into something shaky and tense, and--and--

It all feels like _too much_. 

And Kara presses her lips against her sister’s.

It’s not like any of the other times she’s kissed Alex -- on the cheek, or close to her ear during a hug, or even that one time when Alex had turned her head unexpectedly and Kara’s lips had brushed the corner of her mouth for just an instant.  And it’s not like on TV, not how she’d barely imagined what it would be like to kiss Spock or Sulu or even Uhura -- neat and proficient and just at the right time. 

Instead it’s sloppy and artless and, caught off-guard, Alex’s mouth is already open slightly and Kara’s teeth bump against hers, and she can taste the sugar from Alex’s soda as well as the flavorless lip balm she’s wearing, and it lasts for maybe seven or eight seconds, long enough so that Kara can feel Alex start to breathe through her nose. 

And for those last few seconds, Alex’s hands stop pushing at her shoulders and everything quiets.

\--and Kara hears the front door open.

“Girls!  I’m back!” 

Kara lunges backwards with a jolt so violent, she’s certain she can feel the wooden frame crack underneath the upholstery as she grabs her glasses and shoves them back on her nose, retreating across the couch until she hits the armrest at the opposite end.  Alex’s eyes are wide and she’s wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and scrambling for the remote control when the front door closes over again and Eliza appears at the threshold of the living room. 

“They cancelled my afternoon classes,” Eliza explains, dropping her keys into the bag slung across her shoulders.  “So, I thought we could--oh, for goodness’ sake, you two, pajamas?”  She shakes her head, fondly exasperated.  “Go get dressed and I’ll take you out for ice-cream.” 

“You’re _taking us out for ice-cream_?” Alex drawls, raising both eyebrows.  She points the remote and Kara sees William Shatner disappear with a click, replaced by a shiny, black reflection of her and Alex and the space between them.

“Unless you think you’re too _old_ , Alex,” Eliza sing-songs.  She approaches the couch, ruffling Alex’s hair with her fingers.  “I just want to spend some time with both my girls before you abandon Kara and me.”  The broad smile she’s wearing turns a little less expansive as her focus shifts to Kara.  “What’s wrong, sweetie?  Shouldn’t you be jumping up and down already, breaking my furniture?” 

_Too late_ , Kara thinks, swallowing hard; but, before she can formulate an actual response, one that might make it through the sandpaper dryness of her throat, Alex is on her feet. 

“She’s struck dumb with excitement,” Alex says and reaches out, tugging at the sleeve of Kara’s PJs.  “C’mon, Kara -- don’t want your ten favorite flavors to run out before we get there.” 

They ascend the stairs in silence, Alex marching ahead, fingers now curled around Kara’s wrist -- tight, pulling roughly, Kara thinks, her brain automatically gauging the pressure, even through the fog of mortification and dread and thoughts of _inappropriate contact with family_ that makes her want to be sick.

She’s ruined _everything_ between them. 

Alex won’t ever want to even _look_ at her again.  No more exhaustive TV marathons or hours spent studying together and quizzing each other before exams.  No more long, hot days spent at the beach or cool, late nights on the roof, staring at the stars.  No more whispered conversations about everything under the yellow sun and beyond while they wait to fall asleep at night.  No more holding hands and comforting hugs and just knowing that Alex is _there_. 

Watching over her, looking out for her, keeping her safe.

Kara’s ruined _everything_ with one stupid mistake. 

The bedroom door shuts behind them and Alex finally lets go of her wrist. 

Eyes screwed shut, Kara holds her breath, waiting for the world -- once again -- to explode and cast her far away from the people she loves. 

“Okay, maybe _not_ so repressed,” says Alex from what sounds like the other side of the room.  “A little _weird_ , sure …” 

Kara’s eyes snap open.  Alex’s pajama pants are already tossed on top of the laundry basket, the shirt’s half-unbuttoned, and she’s tugging a pair of jeans up over her hips.  She’s grinning and shaking her head and giving Kara that _look_ , the one that had long ago replaced the sheer embarrassment that would color her face whenever Kara did something strange, something _alien_. 

The rush of awe and relief lasts only a second.  Because Kara might not have destroyed anything, but all the _no mores_ are real, regardless.  Alex is leaving and things are going to be different and Kara loves Eliza _so_ much, but Eliza isn’t Alex. 

Kara doesn’t know how to exist in the world without Alex. 

When Kara doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything -- struck wordless after all -- Alex’s grin relaxes into a warm, crooked smile, and the spark in her eyes softens. 

“It’s _fine_ , Kara,” she says, then starts rummaging through the nearby chest of drawers, throwing tee-shirts onto the bed behind her. 

Kara can feel her shoulders tense and she knows she’s being selfish and she knows she shouldn’t let the petulance she can feel build up inside of her take hold.  But, of course, _there’s_ stupid, dumb, brilliant Alex, trying to make everything better again. 

“Yeah, ‘cause, what I did back there was _fine_ ,” Kara mutters, stepping further into the room.  “Everything’s _fine_.  Don’t you feel just _fine_ , Alex …”

Alex sighs, rolling her eyes.  “Kara, if you’re having a breakdown, can you maybe wait ‘till after we--“ 

“You stopped pushing!” 

Alex freezes, her hand curled around a faded band shirt, the one with a picture on it like the record where the four of them are crossing the street.  The one with that song Alex likes. 

(“It’s kind of a pun, their name,” Alex explains, as Kara gazes at Eliza’s scratchy black LP moving round and round on the dusty turntable.  “They were from England,” she adds with a shrug when Kara frowns, still confused.) 

Alex looks at her, head tilted.  “What’s that?” 

“You stopped pushing,” Kara repeats, quieter this time, less accusatory.  It almost sounds like a question. 

Alex glances away for a long moment, squeezing her eyes shut, before focusing on Kara once again.  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” she says, her voice quiet, cracking a little, eyes taking on a glossy, wet shimmer.  She sniffs loudly and coughs out a short laugh.  “You think you’re the only one who panics over imminent separation?  I’m gonna miss you too, Kara.  But, it’s not like I’ll be gone forever -- there’s winter break and spring break, and … what happened back there, no one died.”

Moving aside the magazine opened up to an article about domestic violence in Hollywood, Kara plops down onto the end of her own bed, feet landing on the floor with a thud.  “How are you so _calm_ about this?” 

Alex shrugs, a small grin pulling at the corner of her mouth.  “’Cause at least there was no tongue?  Even if I _did_ get to boldly go where--” 

“Oh my god!”  Kara covers her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers, but, despite the lingering humiliation, she can feel herself start to smile.

Alex is openly laughing now, the pending tears from only moments ago already blinked away.  She shrugs again, comically exaggerated this time.  “I mean, I know it probably wasn’t _Uhura-good,_ but--“ 

Kara’s hands drop to her knees.  “Okay, _this_ is actually helping, because now I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.  You’re my sister and you love me.”  Alex swaps the pajama top for the tee-shirt, slipping it over her head and pulling it down until it reaches her jeans.  She keeps her arms open.  “We’re gonna be fine, Kara.  I promise.  Now, come here and gimme a hug.” 

Kara gets up off the bed and shuffles over, wrapping her arms around Alex -- careful -- resting her cheek against her shoulder.  It’s soothing, reassuring, easy -- like everything Alex.  She can feel the tension start to lift and-- 

_“Kara!  Alex!  What’s taking you so long?  Honestly …”_

She lifts her head, hears her sister’s heavy sigh. 

“God, her timing _really_ does suck,” Alex groans. 

Kara smiles. 

Like _almost_ everything.

 


	2. Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the ongoing fuckery of 2016, significant chunks of chapter two had to be re-written -- and I'm a painfully slow writer -- because some jokes/scenarios simply aren’t worth the possibility of causing genuine upset, however originally well-intentioned. The theme(s) remain intact, though. A more regular posting schedule will follow for the remaining three segments.
> 
> Also, I’m aware of the ‘Susan’ thing, but they haven’t used it on the show yet; so, for now, our favorite DEO-Agent-Who-Was-Probably-Named-After-the-Second-Best-Character-in-Aliens (yes, I choose to believe that’s also a thing), is referred to solely by her surname.

**Two: Wonderland**

The first time Vasquez addresses her directly, Kara starts looking around her to see who else the agent might be talking to, since no one’s ever called her-- 

“Ma’am?” Vasquez repeats. 

Kara turns back to the agent and presses a finger against her own chest.  “Me?” 

A few feet away, Alex snickers. 

“Yes, ma’am.”  Vasquez’s mouth quirks slightly at the corner, eyes darting past Kara’s shoulder to the source of the snickering.  She holds out a thin, blue folder.  “You asked for these co-ordinates?” 

Kara takes the folder and stammers out a response that has a ‘thank you’ and ‘Agent Vasquez’ in it and, later, gets pissy with Alex for making her feel like an idiot. 

(“You’re used to the whole ‘protocol’ thing.  I’m used to having my boss call me the wrong name.”) 

But, Kara settles quickly into the formality.  She likes Vasquez.  Sure, the agent’s a little on the serious side maybe -- intense and focused, with a narrowed brow and pensive frown, and blunt, no-nonsense tone -- but, it’s entirely appropriate and professional; and even the intermittent smirkiness seems fitting -- like a low-key release valve in a world of alien prison escapees, occasional meta-humans, and Kara’s long-lost aunt trying to--well, they haven’t quite figured that out yet.

“So, what have you got for me?” Kara asks during a lull, arms folded, shoulders straight, studying the monitors above the bank of computers at the back of the command center. 

Vasquez’s eyes shift across the screens.  “Nothing right now, ma’am.”

“Oh, okay.”  Kara nods and smiles and stares at the screens a bit longer, then a little bit longer still.  She smiles again when Vasquez glances briefly in her direction then rocks back on her heels for a moment or two; then lets her attention drift to the control panel, idly tracing a finger between various lights and buttons and switches, while she waits for word of a car chase downtown, or maybe another bank robbery. 

Vasquez pauses and glances up at her again.  “Was there anything else, ma’am?”

“Oh.  No, I’m just--I’ll wait over there.”  Kara points vaguely in the direction of … somewhere else, and steps down from the platform. 

This time, Alex at least remembers to cover her mouth with her hand.

*****

Standing with her back to the counter, hands clasped firmly in front of her to prevent fidgeting, Kara’s beginning to wish she’d just used her heat vision.  But, no, she’d chosen to warm up her Hot Pockets in the microwave, like a normal person.

Like a normal person whose picture is plastered on the cover of CatCo Magazine.  The very same magazine that’s lying on the table in the DEO break room, glaring up at her, the glossy red and blue impossible to ignore against the table’s white surface.  The corners of the publication are dog-eared and a circular dried coffee stain cuts across her face. 

Across the table, Vasquez sits, back straight, head bowed, occupied with the phone in her hand.  Apparently, she’s able to ignore the magazine just fine. 

Kara shifts her weight from one foot to the other.  “Do you think I messed up?” she asks.  She tries to sound off-hand, careless even, but it’s an awkward question and it’s hard not to let a little self-consciousness creep in. 

The agent doesn’t look up.  “I don’t know, ma’am.”

“It’s just a few facts,” Kara continues.  “Small facts.  Mostly small.  Small-ish.  And some … questionable opinions from Cat Grant.”  Her eyes flit to the magazine again before settling on the top of the agent’s still-inclined head.  “Would you have done it?” 

Vasquez’s shoulders lift slightly, and if Kara can’t actually _see_ the corner of her mouth twitch, she swears she can hear it in her voice: 

“Interviewed Supergirl?  I don’t have to, ma’am.  I work with her.” 

Kara smiles, but her shoulders sag a little anyway.  “I think maybe I messed up.” 

Behind her, the microwave beeps. 

Vasquez shrugs again.  “That just makes you one of us, ma’am.”  Then she gets up and leaves the room. 

While she’s eating, Kara’s knee bounces idly under the table and she hums a tune under her breath that she heard on the radio that morning. 

The magazine catches her eye again and she sighs.

Still, it was a nice thought.

***** 

They’re picking up a few last-minute ‘stocking fillers’ for Carter. 

Who, as far as Kara’s aware, does not have enormous club feet. 

(“It’s not spoiling him if he’s not a brat about it, Kiera.  He’s worked exceptionally hard this year.  Straight A’s, taking on additional chores unprompted, and generally being the sweetest, kindest boy in the world … Think of it as an annual bonus.  From his mom.”)

Ms Grant eyes the chemistry set Kara holds up in front of her.  “I got him that last year.” 

“That was for kids his own age.”  Kara points to the guide on the bottom right-hand corner of the box.  “This is the next one up.” 

Cat’s eyebrow quirks; clearly, she’s impressed.  “Well, then, we’ll take that too,” she says to the sales clerk hovering beside them.  She turns back to Kara.  “Now, how about we go grab some--Kiera, _what_ are you doing?” 

Angling herself away from the shop floor behind them, Kara holds the box a little higher against the side of her face.  Because just a few short displays away, Vasquez is making her way through the department store in jeans and a button-up and a leather jacket -- apparently the go-to civilian outfit for DEO agents everywhere -- the expression on her face, well, _festively_ serious, like she’s about to obliterate the list no doubt tucked inside her messenger bag if it’s the last thing she does. 

Cat glances across the aisle, eyes narrowed.  “She looks … interesting,” she says, then arches an eyebrow at Kara.  “Friend of yours?” 

“Kind of.  Not really.  I’m not sure.  We … know one another.  Sort of.”  Kara’s voice drops to a near-whisper.  “I’d just rather she didn’t see me like thi--right now.” 

Ms Grant’s eyes shift back to Vasquez, then to Kara, then back to Vasquez, just as the agent disappears around the corner at the end of the aisle.  She looks at Kara again.  “I see,” she says thoughtfully, as Kara moves the box away from her face.  Her eyes practically _sparkle_ under the harsh department store lights. 

As if she’s made some sort of relatively minor, but nonetheless fascinating, discovery. 

“Oh,” says Kara.  She shakes her head, gripping the arm of her glasses to stop them flying off her face.  “Oh no, Ms Grant, you think … Not that there’s anything--I mean, ‘cause who knows--um … I guess?  But, no, really, it’s not what you--I’m not--”  She splutters to a halt, suddenly struck by a wave of guilt.  Not because it’s true, but because it feels kind of _unpleasant_ to insist on that particular truth when so much about her life is a necessary lie. 

On the other hand, maybe _not_ insisting means she’s appropriating … something. 

In any regard, it’s too late.  Ms Grant’s already studying her with a resigned sort of expression on her face. 

“Pity,” she says with a sigh.  “It would explain so much.  Mostly the cardigans …” 

Before Kara can even think about responding to _that,_ her boss gives her a blinding smile. 

“Now, hand the box over to the nice sales clerk, Kiera, and let’s go eat ...”

***** 

When Kara first heard about ‘gaydar’, she’d thought it was a real, actual thing, like sonar or ultrasound, except these echoes could detect people’s _feelings_.

(“You mean _no one_ had gaydar on Krypton?  Wow …”

“Alex, stop teasing your sister.  Kara, honey, don’t listen to her.”) 

She hadn’t realized, until Eliza explained it to her, that it was mostly a matter of picking up clues based on clichés and stereotypes. 

Ms Grant says she has ‘excellent’ gaydar when it comes to men; less so when it comes to women. 

“Why d’you think that is?” Kara asks, as Cat signals the waitress for another glass of wine while they wait for dessert.  Kara hasn’t finished her first drink, yet.

Ms Grant looks pensive.  “Women are more … complicated,” she says finally and offers no further explanation.   

Kara eyes the empty glasses on Ms Grant’s side of the table, searching for an excuse, because, frankly, it sounds like something one of her more obnoxious dates at college would say and she’s kind of disappointed that Cat would go there. 

So, she’s relieved when, seconds later, Cat smoothes the napkin lying over her lap, leans a little closer across the table, and waves a finger just inches from Kara’s nose.  “But, don’t ever let some opportunistic little cretin tell you that, Kiera.” 

***** 

Alex’s voice crackles through Kara’s earpiece:   

 _“Hank, she’s found her.”_  

Vasquez is bleeding -- her combat pants are soaked a sickly dark crimson from her right knee down to her ankle -- and her laptop and comms headgear lie crushed beside a pile of what used to be metal scaffolding. 

A few feet away, the body of a massive, saw-toothed Fort Rozz escapee lies unmoving on the floor with a single bullet-hole in its forehead.  And a decompressed trigger in its dead hand. 

Kara does a quick calculation:  The only way they’ll make it far enough away from the bomb in time is if she flies Vasquez out of the already dangerously dilapidated warehouse.  And, yet, while Kara doesn’t like to _assume_ things, given what she knows about the agent (which, to be honest, still isn’t a whole lot), even without the presently-donned tac vest and leg rig, Vasquez -- serious, stoic, slightly smirky Vasquez -- sort of looks like she might be one of those types of people who wouldn’t really want to be carried …  

 _“Supergirl, what’s going on?  Is everything okay?”_  

… short of being rescued from impending death-by-enormous-explosion.

Slipping her arm around the agent’s waist, Kara murmurs a quick, “Hold on,” and rockets them up toward the skylight, shielding Vasquez’s head with … _her armpit?  really?_ … as they crash through the glass into the azure sky above.   Seconds later, the air around them shimmers with a wave of intense heat, while tremors from the blast cause both of them to hold on a little tighter. 

That’s when she feels Vasquez’s heart rate soar to at least one-fifty.

Kara tries to remember what she knows about the various causes of accelerating heart rates, runs through her last half-dozen or so rescues to compare and contrast.  But, before she can spend too much time thinking about it, they land just outside the perimeter fence of the warehouse yard -- clear of any freshly exploded debris -- where an armored truck is already heading toward them.  Kara sets the agent gently down on her feet, propping her against one of the pylons by the entrance gate.  She takes a couple of steps back, watching as Vasquez wipes a shaky hand across her forehead, runs her fingers through sweat-damp hair, then pats the weapons pouch strapped to her thigh, as if to check that it’s still there. 

Finally, she looks at Kara, squinting a little against the sun.  “Thank you, ma’am.”

Kara simply nods, timing the agent’s decelerating heart rate until it levels out at what’s probably a still fairly stressed, and therefore pretty impressive, seventy-something.

Moments later, Alex guides a limping Vasquez into the back of the truck stocked with medical supplies that’ll allow her to start tending to the wound without having to wait until they reach the DEO. 

“Do you want me to call someone?” Kara asks Vasquez as the agent lowers herself onto the bench that runs along the wall of the container, her right leg stretched out stiffly in front of her.

“She’s not _dying_ , Kara,” Alex says, rolling her eyes.  She climbs into the back of the truck, crouching down on the overhang, pivoting back round to face her sister.  “You did good,” she says quietly, tucking a messy lock of bomb-swept hair behind Kara’s ear.  Then louder:  “See you back at base, Supergirl!” 

The doors slam shut. 

But, not before Kara hears a voice call out from deeper inside the vehicle: 

“Thanks again, ma’am!  I owe you!” 

***** 

Kara finds herself trying to remember if Alex has ever mentioned _Vasquez-and-Vasquez’s-someone_.  She could ask Vasquez herself, of course, but that might seem a little intrusive _(“Hypothetically, if you_ had _wanted me to call someone that day, who would I have called?  Asking for a nosy friend.”)_ and, really, it’s nobody’s business but Vasquez’s. 

If there _is_ a someone, though, Kara hopes it’s a nice someone, because Vasquez is nice and--   

*****

“… Kiera, pay attention, please?”

Cat’s fingers snap rapidly in front of Kara’s face, causing her to recoil a little.  She blinks away from a smiling James and Lucy, visible through the throng of guests separating one side of the room from the other.  Beside them, neck craned, Winn adjusts his tie.  He’s barely taken his eyes off her since she and Cat arrived ten minutes ago.

Kara focuses on her boss.  “Yes, Ms Grant.  Instructions.  Right.” 

“Right,” Cat confirms.  “So … stick to your usual, what, two drinks max?  Avoid the following topics: politics, religion and, in your case, fashion -- although, I have to admit, you don’t look terrible tonight.”  Ms Grant pauses to adjust one of the shoulder straps of Kara’s one-sixty-reduced-from-three-hundred-dollars cocktail dress.  “And remember, when the time comes, choose wisely.  This isn’t a frat party.” 

“ _Choose_ , Ms Grant?  Sorry?  I’m not sure I--“ 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Kiera … Midnight?  New Year?” 

“Oh.  I hadn’t really intended to--” 

“Yes, whatever.  Now go.  Mingle.  I need to make sure Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t relatably ‘trip’ into the fountain ...” 

A drugstore hold-up has Kara sneaking away early, dress and shoes stashed neatly behind a rooftop air vent. 

Afterwards, she flies to the DEO, where one of the screens is tuned into National City’s CatCo-sponsored countdown.  There’s music and food and streamers and balloons; and, while it might be fairly haphazardly put together and nowhere near as sophisticated as Cat’s indoor fountains and ice sculptures and catering that cost more than Kara’s annual salary, she’s in no hurry to return to a party she can always read about -- with ‘exclusive pictures’ -- later. 

She and Alex head down the corridor to the break room, where a collection of limes, lemons, oranges, and pineapples sits on a tray beside the sink.  In mere seconds, the fruit is sliced and tipped into a fresh punch bowl.  Kara watches as Alex adds rum and soda water. 

“You go ahead, I’ll clean up here,” Kara offers as Alex lifts the bowl with both hands and heads for the door. 

“We’ll clean up later.” 

“And that’s exactly the kind of talk that leaves certain people with no uncontaminated dishes for two days.” 

Alex makes a face, deftly turning the door handle with her elbow, albeit not quite dexterously enough to stop the punch sloshing perilously close to the rim of the bowl.  She pauses in the doorway.  “This isn’t some second-loneliest-night-of-the-year-sit-and-mope-in-the-dark thing, is it?”  

“Nope.  Just a sticky-knives-and-worktops thing.” 

Alex smiles.  “Come find me at midnight, okay?” 

Kara nods and watches her leave. 

When midnight comes, she’s still standing by the sink, knives long-since washed and dried and put away, worktops wiped clean.  It’s not moping in the dark -- the too-bright overhead strip lights are still on, for one thing -- but, she’s thankful for the relative quiet, for the opportunity to try _not_ to feel overwhelmed by, well, everything that’s happened over the last three months. 

A quick x-ray check shows Alex hugging J’onn and kissing him on the cheek, and various other agents and technicians sharing hugs and kisses and high fives; and Kara begins to debate whether she should have just returned to the command center with Alex after all, because, strip-lights aside, staying put and reflecting on all the things she’s gotten right, all the things she’s messed up, all the things she still has to learn, is starting to feel a lot like-- 

“Ma’am?”

Vasquez’s voice jolts Kara back to her immediate surroundings, the chimes from the clock on the TV broadcast no longer reverberating down the corridor, although she reckons it can’t be more than three or four minutes into 2016. 

“Agent Danvers is looking for you,” says Vasquez, just inside the doorway, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared, feet planted apart.  “It’s New Year, ma’am.” 

“Yeah,” Kara nods.  “It’s … Happy New Year.”  With a wide smile, she makes her way around the corner of the table, while Vasquez unclasps her hands and takes a step forward. 

They both pause.

“So, do we …?”  Kara makes some sort of gesture with her arms that she supposes is meant to signify handshake-or-hug? 

Vasquez frowns thoughtfully.  “I guess … it’s up to you, ma’am.”

Unbidden (or perhaps slightly bidden, she thinks later on reflection), Kara pictures James and Lucy during the chimes at Cat’s party; and Winn looking all tragically forlorn, as if she’s deliberately trying to hurt him by not responding to his clumsily dropped hints.  And she considers Ms Grant’s words of probable sound judgment, since she’s been pretty much on-point about a whole bunch of stuff lately. 

Kara looks at serious, sharp, reliable, rarely anything-but-calm Agent Vasquez.  Who doesn’t need advice on anger management or juggling responsibilities; who, as far as Kara’s aware, doesn’t have an aunt who’s trying to kill her; who’s not pining hopelessly over an already taken friend-slash-office colleague … 

Whose presence right now feels like the opposite of overwhelming.

Kara takes a deep breath.  “How about we just go for it?” she suggests brightly.  “I mean, it’s New Year, right?”

Vasquez frowns again, just before her eyes widen slightly in realization.  “Oh.” 

Reflexively, Kara starts to back-pedal.  “Unless you--I mean, I’d totally understand if--” 

“No, it’s …”  Vasquez coughs politely into a loose fist before her hand drops to her side once more.  “It’s fine, ma’am.  New Year, right?” 

“Yeah, you know … tradition, I guess,” Kara affirms, and they both take another couple of steps forward until they’re standing so close that, if Kara hadn’t sliced up all the fruit earlier, they could play a -- probably kind of fun, but, slightly pointless -- round of ‘pass the orange’.  Although, by the time Kara has her arms draped over the agent’s shoulders and Vasquez slides her hands underneath Kara’s cape and rests her palms against the small of her back, they’d be lucky to fit half a lemon between them. 

Vasquez clears her throat.  “Is this okay, ma’am?”

“I think so, yeah,” Kara nods, although she’s not quite sure what the agent is asking.  She masks her uncertainty with another smile.  “But, you know, under the circumstance, you can probably drop _…_ ”  She trails off as Vasquez’s mouth twitches faintly at the corner, matching a slightly arched eyebrow.  All of a sudden _that_ word sounds a little less benign than usual -- and not because she’s suddenly become _really_ invested in properly carried-out extra-military protocol. 

“Ma’am?”  Vasquez’s eyebrow arches a little higher.

“Never mind,” says Kara. 

And half a lemon turns into a razor-thin slice. 

***** 

Of course, Alex finds out -- because it’s ever so slightly possible that Kara’s really _not_ that great at keeping secrets. 

Kara waits for the disbelief-worry-mild hysteria to subside … 

(“ _Vasquez_?  At _New Year_?   _God_ , Kara, this isn’t going to turn into an awkward crapfest, is it?”)

… then laughs and says, “It’s okay, Alex.  And no, there’s no crapfest.  It was just a New Year thing, that’s all.  Really.  It’s okay.” 

Because it really _is_ okay. 

When Bizarro happens, Kara pauses in the doorway of lab X17 and sees kind, earnest eyes shift away from the sleeping girl, before Vasquez gives her a small nod of commiseration then steps out of the way to let the medical team take over.

When Astra dies, Vasquez seems to hesitate for a second, then simply says, “Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” apparently uncertain as to the precise nature of Kara’s relationship with the older woman.  Kara acknowledges the gesture with a somber, but grateful half-smile before the agent leaves her to enter the room where prisoner five-oh-nine-oh waits to talk to her.

When Supergirl sinks the missile only three thousand feet away from levelling National City, on her return to the DEO, Vasquez grins at her -- not smirks, but _grins_ \-- and says, “Great job, ma’am.” 

A high five may also be involved.

*****

\--Vasquez deserves someone nice.

*****

So. 

Unlike pointless, boring ‘updates’ between the Cowardly Martian and Senator Asshole Crane, this _could_ actually be fun. 

Glancing both ways along the otherwise empty hallway, Kara steps closer, placing her right hand against the cool, grey wall just above Vasquez’s shoulder, dust and fragments of concrete from around the corner still clinging to her knuckles. 

Her whole body itches, like she’s trying to claw out of her skin, trying to reach for … _something_ to lift the crushing weight, to let her _breathe,_ to make everyone _see_.  And yet, she’s never felt so at peace with herself, with what she is and what she could be if she’d only just let herself ...   

“… feel like we just got started back then,” she says, fingers from her other hand trailing softly up and down the length of the other woman’s arm.  Kara tilts forward until her lips are barely a hair’s breadth from the agent’s ear.  “Like things didn’t have to stop when they did.”  She leans back again, her lips drawing slowly across her teeth until it feels like she’s smiling.  

Vasquez gazes back at her, eyes steady, unblinking.  “I don’t think so, ma’am.”

Kara’s eyebrows rise.  “You don’t _think_ so?” she echoes, her fingers coming to an abrupt halt somewhere near the agent’s elbow.  She barks out a terse, icy laugh.  “Where the hell were _you_ that night?”

“Ma’am, that’s not what it was about--”

“Wasn’t it?” Kara sneers.  “Don’t think I never noticed.  All those looks, all the _Yes, ma’am_ s and _No, ma’am_ s …”  She cocks her head, summoning a pleasant smile, fused with just a hint of mockery as she toys with Vasquez’s collar, tugging lightly at the tab of the zipper.  “Why d’you think it was so easy for me?  You could have said no, and yet …” 

Vasquez doesn’t even flinch.  “Again, ma’am, I think you’re mistaken.” 

The tab snaps off and drops to the floor with a quiet, metallic bounce.  Kara steps on it, sliding her foot between the agent’s own, using the motion to nudge Vasquez’s boots a little further apart.  She leans close again so their foreheads almost touch.

“I saved your life,” Kara hisses.  “You _owe_ me, remember?” 

Vasquez doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but, Kara can feel the agent’s breath against her lips, can see those wide, brown eyes start to darken, can hear that heart rate begin to-- 

“With all due respect, ma’am … go fuck yourself.” 

Kara blinks, startled. 

 _(shocked, furious, confused, aroused, frustrated)_  

“Yeah, like you wouldn’t want to see _that_ ,” she spits.  Stepping away, hands dropping to her hips, she shrugs.  “But, whatever.  Your loss.” 

It’s late.  She has work tomorrow.

Kara turns away, starts to stalk down the hallway, and then she hears it, echoing off the walls behind her: 

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” 

Her step falters.  She’s tempted to look back, but she doesn’t.  Instead, Kara finds herself picturing Cat Grant firing orders and lobbing demands at Agent Vasquez, only to be met by a blank stare and that barely discernable smirk -- the kind of expression the ungrateful bitch might wear under torture.  Cat’s head would probably explode. 

Kara starts to smile.

She holds onto that thought as she flies home. 

***** 

While Alex visits J’onn in his cell, Kara finds Vasquez at her usual post in the command center. 

The agent glances up for only a second, eyes skimming even more swiftly over Kara’s clothing, before she returns to the task of monitoring Earth for evil alien activity. 

The irony isn’t lost on Kara, and she wants to ask for somewhere more private for discretion’s sake, but it doesn’t feel like something she has any right to request.  Not now.  Instead, she relies on the relative dearth of agents in the immediate vicinity and a low voice. 

“I’m _so_ sorry.  I made it horrible and weird and I didn’t mean any of it …“ 

Vasquez’s eyes don’t move from the monitors.  “I know, ma’am.” 

“I want things to be okay again,” Kara says, and almost takes a step closer, before thinking better of it and staying where she is.  “Just tell me what I can--” 

She’s cut off by a short exhalation of breath, as Vasquez’s chair swivels to the side and the agent looks up at her. 

“Things are okay,” says Vasquez.  

“Really?” Kara checks. 

Agent Vasquez doesn’t say anything for a moment.  Then the corner of her mouth curves just a tiny bit upward and she shrugs one shoulder.  “If it helps … I’ve had weirder.” 

If the agent’s lying, Kara can’t tell, but she smiles anyway and leaves the platform and waits for Alex to take her home. 

***** 

She’s had all day to think about it, but it only really strikes her the next night when she’s flying toward CatCo Plaza, her mind momentarily free enough from the immediate aftermath of broken buildings and damaged relationships to turn over what Alex told her when she first woke up in the recovery room. 

She thinks about her petty, childish jealousy toward Lucy. 

J’onn’s prior reluctance to embrace his alien identity. 

Cat’s arrogance and shallow self-centeredness and sometimes brutal mean streak. 

Her relationship with Alex and the tiny shreds of resentment and envy buried deep amongst infinite layers of love and loyalty and pride in one another.

Landing softly on Ms Grant’s balcony, Kara sits back on the arm of one of the outdoor chairs and gazes out across the city.  She follows the lines and shapes of tall buildings that don’t quite reach the stars, of windows that reflect the lights that pulse all over town.

Like heartbeats.

And she tries not to wonder.


	3. No Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for a more regular posting schedule ... Apologies from a compulsive (re-)editor.
> 
> Note: This is not crack, I swear.

**Three: No Place**

She hears cursing and raised voices.

Changing course, Kara heads for the apartment building four blocks away, swooping down toward the fire escape on the third floor.  A frazzled-looking woman leans against the railing, smoking a cigarette, a tin of peppermint Altoids poking out of the breast pocket of her shirt.

“Is everything all right?” Kara asks, hovering beside the platform.  “Is anyone hurt?  I heard--”

The woman looks up and straight away takes a step back, almost like a reflex.

In turn, Kara nearly flinches -- or she _would_ nearly flinch if she hadn’t seen almost the exact same reaction at least a dozen times over recent days.  As it is, she merely swallows around the also lately too-familiar knot in her throat and backs up a short distance.

“Supergirl,” the woman murmurs, as if almost to herself.  A tilted eyebrow accompanies the more precisely aimed words that follow:  “Come to trash the building?  Throw someone off it maybe?”

“Nope, all better now, everything back to normal,” Kara says, and tries a small, hopefully non-threatening, smile.

The woman still looks wary, but she doesn’t seem to be afraid, which is something.  Eyes narrowing, her head cants to the side.  “So, why are you here, hanging outside my apartment?”

“I was, you know, flying around.  As I do sometimes.  And I heard yelling.”

“Right,” the woman nods.  “That would be me.  And my husband.  And the kids.”

Kara frowns.  “Is everything okay?  Do you need help?”

Taking a long drag from her cigarette, the woman studies Kara carefully -- perhaps still a little cautious -- then releases the resulting stream of smoke with a light shrug.  “Sure, why not?” she says.  “At this point, if Donald Trump turned up, I’d probably let _him_ help -- and my folks are from Mexico.”

Kara feels her heart sink a little bit, but, things being what they are, she can’t afford to be too offended.

Nevertheless, the woman seems to sense she might have overstepped and offers Kara a half-apologetic, half-sympathetic smile.  “I really _would_ appreciate your help,” she says, moving closer to the edge of the platform again.  “So, come on, Supergirl …”  She flicks the cigarette over the railing, pops a mint into her mouth, and waves a hand toward the window behind her.  “Come save my marriage.”

*****

While mom and dad talk in urgent whispers at the other end of the room, Kara stands by the kitchen door, hands folded loosely in front of her.  Determined not to listen in, she instead takes the time to check out the living area in front of her.  Her eyes travel over an assortment of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins smiling out from easily a dozen framed photographs propped up on different surfaces; a half-knitted sweater lying in a basket beside an armchair; a well-worn, comfortable-looking couch, next to which stands a folding rack filled with magazines, comics, and books; six dining chairs temporarily sorted into two stacks near the wall on her right; an iPod playing soft music sung in Spanish, docked on a shelf crammed with Minor League and kids’ soccer trophies.

Her gaze finally settles on a nearby end table, where juice-filled _Adventure Time_ and _Star Wars_ tumblers sit on brightly-colored coasters.

Cat had been right to put the fear of (a superpowered, alien) god into the city.  But, she’d be heartbroken, Kara thinks, if she could see the product of that fear passed down from adults to children, spreading through schools and scout troops and play dates and sleepovers.

Sitting on a large rug designed to look like a small town, noticeably further away than when she’d first arrived, the kids eye her guardedly from behind a half-built Lego house and piles of plastic bricks.  Tiny Lego people are scattered around the construction site, along with a few random dinosaurs and a BB-8 large enough to roll over the other figures.

Kids have always been easier.  More trusting, less inclined to find fault, or search for specious motives, or simply think the worst.  Freer with smiles and hugs and kisses.

Until now.

Now, an extra-friendly smile from Supergirl only prompts a nervous, wounded look from the older child and slow, blinking eyes from the younger one.  They both scoot back further still, pulling the Lego with them.

Deflated, she turns her attention to the muted television fixed to the stretch of wall on her left, where Dorothy’s world has just transformed from sepia to Technicolor.  Kara watches, thankful for the distraction, while the Munchkins and Glinda puzzle over the visitor from a star called Kansas.

She follows the movie for a few more minutes until movement at the other end of the room makes her look away again.  The adults are done talking.  She straightens up as the man approaches, the woman close behind him; and, while Kara sees uncertainty in the smile he gives her, it’s clear he’s _trying_.  He claps a hand on her shoulder, a conspicuous bobbing in his throat telling her he’s just been reminded why _Of Steel_ is the chosen metaphor.  And, for a moment, Kara worries that it might be too much for him.  But, he really is _trying_.

“Knock yourself out, Supergirl,” he says, gesturing to the disorder of the floorspace between the couch and TV, then pushes through the kitchen door, the sounds of cupboards opening and closing and the muted clatter of cookware following close behind.

“How about some coffee before we get started?” the woman asks cheerfully and doesn’t wait for an answer before joining her husband in the kitchen.

Kara turns to the TV again, just in time to see Glinda and the Munchkins waving joyful goodbyes as Dorothy and Toto leave Munchkinland to begin their journey.

She feels a light tug on her cape and looks down.

“You like that movie?” asks the little one, peering up at her through long, dark lashes.

Kara smiles.  “Yeah, I do.”

*****

Kara doesn’t curse very often -- even now, the word she mutters under her breath is on the mild side -- but, apparently it’s bad enough and loud enough for the kids to gasp and for the older one to yank at the hem of their mom’s shirt and say, “Ooh, Supergirl said a bad word!”

“Supergirl’s kind of distracted, sweetheart,” says the woman and places a tray carrying two more cups of coffee and another plate of Toll House cookies next to the space on the floor where Kara’s sitting cross-legged, pushing her cape back for what feels like the umpteenth time so it doesn’t get in the way.  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Kara says, glancing up with a grimace, before returning to the task at hand.

“That’s the last of the cookie mix,” says the woman, lifting one of the cups and perching on the edge of the armchair nearest to the -- thankfully diminishing -- pile of wood and braces and loose bolts and screws on the floor.

“Thanks,” says Kara, a little guiltily.  She’d tried to turn down a second batch, but according to the woman, her husband’s one of those bake-your-stress-away people, and Kara’s stomach didn’t want to offend anyone.

“How come Supergirl gets more cookies than us?” whines the older child, now standing at the end of the couch, elbows digging into the armrest.

“Supergirl needs the extra energy,” says the woman.  “For flying.”

The smaller child’s nose wrinkles doubtfully.  “Cookies for flying?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Kara mumbles, holding her free hand under her mouth so’s not to get crumbs everywhere.  Her eyes scan the space around her, searching for the part she needs to finish the leg attachments.

The kid ambles across the floor to rest a head on the woman’s lap, sighing mournfully.   “My juice is too wet without cookies.”

“I forgot to mention the guilt trip that comes with the chocolate chips,” the woman says to Kara before heaving her own sigh at the kids.  “Okay, fine, one more, that’s all.”

“Yay!”

Kara rears back to avoid the scramble while two more cookies disappear from the plate.  The little one plops down onto the floor a few feet away; the older one returns to the end of the couch.

“Has anyone seen a metal bracket?” Kara asks, not for the first time.  “About this big?”  She holds her thumb and forefinger about five inches apart.

Just as before, two small heads shake in unison and the woman shrugs.

“It’ll turn up, I guess,” Kara concedes, then looks at the smaller child.  “Can you pass me the flat-blade screwdriver, please?” she asks, pointing at the item in question.

“This?”  The kid picks up the tool and holds it out with a shy smile.

“That’s the one,” Kara confirms with an even wider smile of her own.  “Thank you _so_ much.”

“Are you gonna say another bad word?” asks the older child.

“I sure hope not,” Kara murmurs, squinting at the instructions for about the fifth time in the last two minutes alone.  But, really, it just doesn’t make _sense_.  She drops the flat-blade and picks up the Phillips again.

“Hey!  What’s the fastest thing on earth?” asks the little one.

Kara pauses.  “Um … me?”

The kid giggles.  “No, silly … it’s cows.  ‘Cause they’re pasteurized.”

Kara chuckles, although she’s fairly certain that’s _not_ the joke.  

“That’s not the joke, moron,” the older child confirms, picking up a Game Boy from the seat of the couch before belly-flopping onto the cushions behind Kara’s head.

“Mom, I’m not a moron!”

“No, you’re not a moron, honey.”  The woman takes a sip from her coffee.  “Are you sure this isn’t taking you away from other superhero stuff?” she asks Kara.

“Pretty sure,” Kara tells her with a wan smile.  “I’m not exactly the most popular person in National City these days.“  She picks up what she thinks _might_ be the brace she’s been searching for all night and manages a genuine grin.  “But, I’ve gotta say, I think this is the first time I ever got my as--butt, I mean … _butt_ kicked by a table.”

“Supergirl _nearly_ said a bad word again, mom,” drawls the older child distractedly, not even bothering to glance up from the Game Boy making loud bleeping noises just a short distance from Kara’s eardrums.

“Sorry,” says the woman to Kara.  “We’ve got a swear jar and they can be a little too vigilant sometimes.  Before you got here, we practically ended up paying for the older one’s college.  I don’t normally smoke either, in case you wondered.  Not these days.  But, you know …”  She waves a hand at the work-in-progress.

Kara nods in sympathy.  “I think we’ll skip the ‘I can see your blackened lungs’ lecture,” she says, then groans as not-the-right-brace-after-all falls to the floor.  “’Cause, right now, I think I’m on the verge of bumming one ...”  

The woman starts to grin -- then rolls her eyes as the kids start shrieking.

“Kids, calm down.  Supergirl was joking, right?”

Kara winces as the smaller one’s lower lip starts to tremble.  “Absolutely joking,” she agrees, and mouths a ‘sorry’ at the woman.

“Why don’t the two of you go play in your room for a while?” the woman suggests gently to the kids.  “Let Supergirl finish up here, and then it’ll be time for dinner.  On a table without crayon and _My Little Pony_ stickers all over it.”

The Game Boy bleeping ceases.

“One more cookie?” checks the older one.

The woman rubs at her temple with a couple of fingers.  “Fine, sure, whatever.”

Two more vanishing cookies later, the older child heads into the hallway, the younger one trailing after, a path of crumbs following behind.  The woman releases a long-suffering sigh.

“You got kids?” she asks, then grimaces.  “Sorry, that’s probably need-to-know or classified or something, huh?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Kara replies with a smile.  “But, no, I don’t.”

The woman nods slowly.  “But, you’ve got family, right?”

The screwdriver slips, stabbing into Kara’s other palm.  “Sorry?”

“Superman?” the woman prompts.  “Your cousin?”  She winces at the presumed injury.  “Are you okay?  That looked kind of painful.”

“Oh, yeah, no harm done,” Kara nods, flexing her hand before straightening out the freshly-bent blade.  “My cousin ... I don’t see him a lot, but we keep in touch.”

The woman smiles ... then frowns a little as her eyes turn to the TV.  Kara looks up to see Dorothy click her heels together and repeat the mantra she’s been given.

“You know, if that idiot, Glinda, had just told her the truth in the first place, she wouldn’t have had to go through everything she did.”  The woman looks at Kara, shrugging lightly.  “But, then I guess that wouldn’t have made a very good movie.”

Kara shrugs back.  “ _Wicked_ would probably be a lot shorter too?”

The woman chuckles, then leans forward a little, elbows resting on her knees.  “So,” she says.  “You know Cat Grant, right?  Is it true she once--?”

Kara’s spared having to correct whatever misconception or outright falsehood she’s about to hear as the kitchen door opens and the woman’s husband pokes his head into the living room.

“Nice,” he says, checking out Kara’s handiwork.  “Almost looks like furniture.”

Kara frowns slightly.  “I think a brace might be missing.”

“You mean that one?”

Kara follows his pointing finger to the rug, where a metal bracket lies nestled in a corner of the half-built Lego house, partially hidden under a collection of loose bricks.

“Oh.”

The man enters the room and crouches down to pick up the support piece, holding it out with an apologetic smile.  “They probably just forgot,” he says, as she takes the brace from him.  And before she can respond, he lifts the now-empty plate from beside her and the smile turns kind, maybe even a little knowing.  “How about some pie?  You like pie?”

Neither he nor his wife can be more than ten years older than Kara, but for a brief moment, light years melt away and she sees a different face.

Kara nods.

*****

Holding onto the woman’s elbow as they climb back through the window onto the fire escape, Kara keeps her steady until they’re both standing firmly on the platform.

“Well, thanks for the coffee earlier, and the cookies, and the pie ... and the extra pie.”  She holds up the Tupperware container in her other hand.

“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?” the woman checks.  “The table looks pretty solid.”

“Thanks, but I should probably do another sweep of the city.  You never know when someone might … wish someone else was interrupting them getting mugged, I guess.”

The woman takes hold of Kara’s free hand, squeezing lightly, the expression on her face warm and open, practically a mirror-image of the way she’d scrutinized Supergirl earlier that evening from almost the same precise spot on the steel grating.  “For what it’s worth, if I ever get mugged, I hope you’re the one who rescues my purse then breaks the guy’s fingers.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” says Kara, a little surge of hope flaring up inside.  She decides not to contradict the breaking-fingers part -- it would probably just ruin the moment.

As would pointing out that the woman hasn’t let go of her hand yet.

Still squeezing, her thumb rubs at the center of Kara’s palm where she’d stabbed herself earlier.  “Can you feel that?” she asks, eyes slanting in curiosity.  The pressure against Kara’s palm increases.

“Yeah,” Kara breathes.  It comes out hoarse.  Clearing her throat, she takes a breath.  “So,” she says.  “I should probably get going if--"

Her words come to an unexpected halt as, all of a sudden, she’s caught in a tight hug, hands pressed hard against her back, chin resting heavily on her shoulder.  And, for a moment, Kara just stands there, hands hovering uncertainly behind the woman’s own back, while something stirs in her, at once aching and reassuringly familiar.  It hasn’t been _that_ long, she tells herself but, all the same, it feels like an age has passed since she was last held like this.  Recent transgressions seem to linger only abstractly in the distance, like the hazy remnants of a disappearing dream; and, for all its simplicity -- it’s a hug, that’s all -- the world might as well have just tilted on its axis.  Careful not to drop the container, Kara returns the embrace -- the ever-heedful home version designed to avoid bruises and cracked ribs.  But it’s enough.  Her eyes drift shut and she breathes deep, reveling in the sensation of something empty being filled up again.

She’s not sure how much time passes, but it’s long enough so, at first, she’s only dimly aware of the feel of warm, tentative lips against her own, closely followed by the taste of mint and coffee and lipstick.  She’s sufficiently cognizant to know that she should probably put a stop to what’s happening, but that persistent aching feeling puts to rest the voice in her head uttering words and phrases like _married woman!_ and word-of-the-day calendar 2008 entry, _tawdry!_ and _what would Alex/Eliza/J’onn think?!!_

Instead she kisses back, desperate enough to be slightly embarrassing, but the contented sigh she hears suggests the woman either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care.  Emboldened, Kara draws her closer, parts her own lips further, lets her free fingers sift through soft hair.  Other fingers -- not her own -- press lightly against her jaw, while a thumb traces a short, wet path just above her cheekbone.

Which really _is_ kind of embarrassing.

Pulling away, Kara turns her back, aiming for at least some degree of mitigation; not helped by a hiccupping sob that she tries, unsuccessfully, to turn into a cough.

“Are you all right?” the woman asks, fingertips on Kara’s shoulder.

Kara nods slowly, rubbing at her damp cheeks with the heel of her hand until it feels like it’s safe to show her face again.  As she turns, she lets out a shaky laugh.  “Wasn’t I supposed to be saving your marriage?”

The woman chuckles softly.  “My marriage is fine.  I live in a nice apartment with my nice husband and, when they’re not being little assholes, mostly-nice kids.  I have a nice job.  But, Supergirl putting my table together?  That’s about the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all year.  I figured I should probably make the most of it.”  She shrugs.  “Also, Leslie Willis kind of implied on her show last year--”

“Leslie Willis has got … issues,” Kara says diplomatically.  “In fact, she’s kind of a psycho,” she adds in an almost-whisper with somewhat less diplomacy, although a few necessary stabs of guilt remind her not to get too carried away with the mud-slinging.

The woman nods thoughtfully.  “Well, maybe things’ll turn around for her one day and people’ll like her again,” she says, then scrunches her nose.  “And in case you somehow missed the painfully heavy subtext there ...”

“No, I got it,” Kara nods, and takes a step back toward the railing, readying herself for take-off.  “So … tell all your friends?”

The woman frowns.  “That I kissed Supergirl?”

“I was thinking more the part where I helped you out,” Kara clarifies, not quite ready to make emotionally fraught kisses on fire escapes with married women a regular part of her comeback tour.

“Right, of course,” the woman nods.  “I’ll let them know.”

Kara rises from the platform.  “Thanks for everything.  I mean that.”

“Good luck!” calls the woman, as Kara jets off into the night sky.  “I’ll think of you whenever one of the kids runs into a corner!”

*****

Kara’s so grateful for everything Alex has done for her -- keeping Kara safe, well-versed, making her more human -- even through those difficult early days, and that slightly shaky college period; right up to the present where, grown closer, it’s less a duty and more an instinct, however occasionally misguided.  Alex is still protecting her, teaching her, doing everything possible to make sure Kara knows that who she is -- who she really is -- matters.  And that includes creating the room for her at the DEO where her mother’s facsimile resides.

Yet, it’s Cat Grant’s office balcony, even if it lacks the actual isolation -- even if it now comes with a footnote that turns Kara's blood cold when she thinks about it -- that’s probably the closest analogue Kara has to Kal-El’s Fortress of Solitude.  It’s restful and calming; a bastion of hope and inspiration and restoration; it’s where she gains most of the wisdom she needs to be Supergirl; and sometimes it feels like the best place to be when there’s nowhere else to go.

She misses Alex _so much_.

J’onn too.  But, mostly Alex.

Ms Grant purses her lips as Kara peels back the lid of the Tupperware container and shows her the contents.

“You don’t normally bring pie,” Cat comments, gently swirling the amber-colored liquid inside the lowball glass in her hand.

“I don’t normally _get_ pie -- it’s a gift,” Kara explains.  “I … helped a family out earlier tonight.”

“What?  A fire?”  Cat peers inside the container again.  “Although it doesn’t look burned, so probably not.”  She arches a questioning eyebrow at Kara.  “Some kind of near-drowning mishap?  That would explain the slightly soggy-looking bit in the middle …”

“More like … a structural problem,” Kara hedges, replacing the lid.

“Hmm,” Cat murmurs, fingers drumming against her hip.  “We really should do a _Tribune_ piece on shoddy construction in this city.”  She directs a small smirk at Kara.  “Whilst carefully glossing over your own contribution, of course.”

The best Kara can come up with in response is a sheepish smile.

Which Cat shrugs off.  “Unless you’re some kind of secret billionaire, I doubt whatever your day job is pays enough to replace entire stories every time you get into a scuffle with another alien.”

“Not _every_ time,” Kara mutters.

“Well, regardless.  What _this_ means --“  Cat taps a finger against the container.  “-- is things are looking up.”  She starts to smile, then pauses, studying Kara with familiar, watchful eyes.  “And, yet, you don’t seem very happy.”

“Things were _okay_ ,” Kara tells her.  “Then there was a convenience store robbery, a mom and pop place a few blocks south, and … and the owners asked me to leave.”

Cat looks skeptical.  “In the middle of a robbery?”

“I’d already disarmed the guy, then it was, _Thanks, but please go away_.  I’m not even paraphrasing.”

Cat props an elbow on top of the balcony wall, her gaze dropping to the glass in her hand.  “A minor hitch, that’s all.”

Sliding the container onto the coffee table beside a vase of sunflowers, Kara sits on the arm of the nearest chair.  She folds her hands on top of her lap, breathing in deep.  “It’s just … I guess it’s harder than I thought it’d be.”

“Yeah, tougher than I thought too,” Cat admits with a small sigh, then directs a quick smile at Kara.  “But, keep going, Supergirl -- we’ll get there.”  She takes a long sip of her drink, then sets the glass on top of the wall ... and evidently misjudges.

In a flash, Kara’s at her side, catching the glass before it tumbles off the edge to hurtle forty stories down to the pedestrian-populated pavement below.

“Well, that could have been a horrible tragedy,” Cat says as Kara places the glass firmly on the balcony’s flat surface.  “It’s the last of this brand in my stock.  Thank you for not spilling any.”

“Not funny,” Kara reprimands, as yet unprepared to embrace balcony-themed humor.  She starts to move away, but a hand on her forearm stops her.

Cat tugs lightly until Kara’s facing her again.  Reaching out, she wipes her thumb gently along Kara’s lower lip, inspects the pad for a few seconds, then looks at her.  “Well, who knew Estée Lauder decided to branch out into the convenience store market?” she muses, the smirk faint, but visible nonetheless.

An unmistakable heat rises on Kara’s cheeks.  “Um, it’s kind of a weird story?”

Cat’s smirk ... turns even smirkier.  “While I’m sure any explanation would be both intriguing and entertaining, I’m afraid I don’t have time for it.  I’m leaving shortly to pick Carter up.”

“Oh?”  Kara uses the change of topic to discreetly wipe away any remaining lipstick with her own thumb.

Cat nods as she picks up the glass again.  “He’s spent the better part of the evening ‘hanging out’ at some miscreant classmate’s home, playing video games and -- I don’t know -- mainlining pizza and talking about … you, probably.”  Despite the flippant characterization of her son’s leisure time, she looks pleased.

Kara would like to be pleased too, but something about that last part creates an unsettling feeling in her gut.

Apparently, Cat notices.  Her gaze turns soft, but no less intense than usual.

“Well?” she says after a moment.  “Aren’t you going to ask?”

Kara shrugs lightly, staying silent, uncertain if she wants to know or not.  She’d deliberately kept the earlier ‘minor hitch’ to herself, and not merely to save face over the nature of the heroics.  Stupidly, she’d forgotten how pointless it was to want to shield Cat Grant from the reactions of small strangers.

Ms Grant waits another few seconds, rubbing contemplatively above her eyebrow with a finger before breathing out a quiet sigh.  “I’m not going to lie, there were a few nightmares,“ she says, her gaze flickering briefly toward the balcony wall.  “And I had some explaining to do, but, yes, you’re still his favorite superhero.  Perhaps not quite at a hundred percent again yet, but I’d say you’re sitting at a comfortable ... ninety-four?”

Kara exhales a quiet breath of her own.  “Thank you, Ms Grant.”

Cat shrugs.  “I’m not _entirely_ happy about it, since I _was_ hoping finally to get rid of that poster on his wall.  It’s ... unnerving having you looming over me when I’m saying goodnight.”

Kara grins, while Cat rolls her eyes, just as her phone starts to buzz.

Picking it up from the table, Ms Grant glances at the screen.  “And that’s my driver,” she announces, dropping the phone into her purse.  She finishes her drink.  “You’re welcome to stay here for a while, if you like.  Just leave the way you came ...” 

“Ms Grant, here ...”  Kara lifts the container from the table and holds it out.  “You should take this ... for you and Carter.  It’s too much for one person.”

Cat’s brow narrows curiously.  “Don’t you have some sort of extra-Olympian metabolism?”

“Please?” Kara insists.  She wants to tell Cat about Alex, about how much she misses her sister, how much she worries, how much she doesn’t want to sit in her apartment and eat pie and watch TV without her.  Instead, she holds the container out further and says, “It tastes better than it looks, I promise.  I ... ate another one earlier.”

“Ah,” Cat says with a smirk.  She takes the box.  “Then, thank you.  I’m sure Carter’s left room for dessert.”  Tucking the container under her arm, she picks up her purse, then says, “Oh, and just to be sure, I’m not going to be reading about ... you know ... in some tabloid next week, am I?”  She waggles a finger in the direction of Kara’s mouth.

Kara bites the inside of her cheek.  “No, Ms Grant.”

Cat’s head bobs slightly.  “Of course, if things get too desperate, we might want to revisit that sort of thing.  Clearly, if it was good enough to get free pie ...”

Kara swallows nervously.  “You’re joking, right?”

“Yes.  That was a joke.”

Shaking her head, Kara starts to rise from the balcony.  “Goodnight, Ms Grant.”

Cat looks up at her.  “You’re not staying?”

Kara shakes her head again, because things are still awkward with James; and Winn’s wrapped up in Siobhan-related problems -- partially of Kara’s making -- and right now it feels like the only thing worse than spending the rest of the night alone is _waiting_ to spend the rest of the night alone.  “I’ve got ... things to do,” Kara lies.  “Stuff ... that needs me to be doing it.”

“Oh,” says Ms Grant.  “Okay.”  Brow creased, she watches Kara for a moment, then nods once and turns away.

Hovering above the balcony wall, Kara sees Cat reach for one of the handles of her office door, then stop, glancing down at the plastic container cradled in her arm before turning back round.

“I wonder,” Cat begins, lips quirking in a wry semi-smile.  Her fingers twist agitatedly around the chain of the necklace resting against a throat that can’t help but look a little flushed in the warm glow of the balcony lights.  “If that ‘stuff’ you’re planning to do isn’t _too_ urgent, maybe you’d--”  She pauses mid-sentence, jaw silently suspended in hesitation.

Kara tilts forward a little.  “Yes, Ms Grant?”

Whole seconds pass until, finally, blinking up at her, Cat exhales an audible puff of breath.  She shakes her head briskly and flashes a quicker, broader smile.  “Nothing, it’ll wait,” she says.  “Goodnight, Supergirl.”

She turns and opens the door behind her.

As she makes her way through the dimly-lit office, Kara watches, keeping track as the other woman rides the elevator down to the lobby, back pressed against one of the side rails, clutching the plastic container tightly against her as she stares at the opposite wall; then _click-clacks_ across the plaza toward the waiting car and pulls out her phone.

_“Carter, sweetheart?  I’ll be there in fifteen minutes ...”_

Kara lets the rest of the conversation go unheard.  She waits for the Mercedes to pull away from the curb, then turns to leave, catching sight of the glass from earlier -- empty now -- left on the balcony wall just below her feet.

She picks it up, moves it to the table, and flies home.

 


End file.
